The Cockroach Squirm

[nibbed]

Mother taught me to dance
with her foot on my neck
and a bottle of poison
in her hand.

You writhe limp towards the heels edge
as your spine is ground to a pulp free juice
that trickles fire in your mouth
and reddens your eyes.

I break it out at parties
when heat strobes panic
in stilted patterns towards 
the heel edge
of a bottle.

I tried to reply, but then I backed out because I wasn't sure what I critiqued would be helpful. I think it needs some clarification, too. Is the poison taken to parties, does circumstance cause cowardliness, is it the circumstance that is taken to parties? I am confused. Plus it is really dark and worrisome. I hope the poet is okay, though. I hope you are feeling warmth and happiness.

nibbed